The minister's wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about the matter of Kirstin's coming home long before she came. For as the summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and had appealed to them for help.

She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go elsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. What she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there, she told them, might well pa.s.s for the days of a Scottish summer. What she could not endure was the thought of going away alone.

"I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of the long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old and frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now will you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?"

"We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she came into our house," said Mrs Hume gravely. "It was a risk our taking her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one."

"But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?"

"Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she would be in yours should she go with you."

"There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. And we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at an end," said Mr Hume.

"Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her,"

said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie.

"I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare her to me," said Mrs Esselmont. "But that is only the beginning of my pet.i.tion. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part with her for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear me. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older.

Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I am certain--at least I have hope--that she might be helped by one who has been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me take Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a good man. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the child he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle, little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life before her!"

A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to the window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were only just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laid herself back on her pillow and waited.

"Well?" said she after a little.

"Well, mother?" said the minister, sitting down again.

"Speak for us both," said his wife.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "I have only this to say to-night. We thank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes, we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask counsel."

"Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we can go, the better."

There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they parted. Mrs Esselmont's last words were these:

"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain.

Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take Allison. And remember, my dear," said she to Mrs Hume, "you have another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child go."

There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being made, there was no time to lose.

Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be.

"Allison," said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill this afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and put on your bonnet."

Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat the weaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend Mrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over.

Allison did not pa.s.s by them now without a word, as used to be her way during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to say more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil," Mrs Coats said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes.

"She has gi'en warning. She was ay above the place," said Mrs Coats.

"Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place weel," said her friend.

"But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with doin' the bidding o' anither."

"She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it.

What would ye have?" said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear through the open window what was to be said.

"That's true," said his wife; "but I ken what Mistress Coats means for a' that."

"Ye may say that! It's easy seen, though no' just so easy shown. Is she like the ither la.s.sies o' the place? Who ever saw her bare feet?

It's hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her."

"And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her ain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleeves are put doon to her hands."

"I should like to ken the folk she belongs to."

"They're decent folk, if she's a specimen o' them. Ye needna be feared about that," said the weaver.

"It's no' that _I'm_ feared, but ane would think that she was feared herself. Never a word has pa.s.sed her lips of where she came from or who she belongs to."

"Never to the like o' you and me. But the minister's satisfied, and Mrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam' o', we hae naething to do wi'

them."

"That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there's maistly something to be hid."

"And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae the een o' her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o' the minister's la.s.s. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye'll do that same," said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion again.

"Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women," said Mrs Coats, with a look which implied sympathy with the weaver's wife as well as disapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed.

"Oh! ay; he's a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy eneuch wi' me."

For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs Esselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowers left, but the gra.s.s was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, "the last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on with pleasure."

"It's a bonny place," said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked up quickly. "Do ye no' ken that it's ill for a young la.s.s to sigh and sech like that? Is it that this 'minds ye o' anither bonny place that ye would fain see?" Allison smiled, but shook her head. "I never saw a garden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own--"

"And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?"

"Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your advice about it," said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it.

"Oh! I'll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin ye are near at hand." Allison shook her head.

"I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the other side of the sea."

"In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye go there ye can ask me and I'll give ye seeds to take wi' ye, and maybe slips and roots as well. They'll 'mind you o' hame in that far land. I once heard o' a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at the sicht o' a gowan."

"Thank you," said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though she smiled.

"Here's my lady," said Delvie, bending to his work again.

Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid, a woman several years older than herself.